


Shut Up, It's A Thing!

by millygal



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Ancients, Bottom John, Horny Whilst High, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When will Sheppard learn not to play with the unspecified machinery!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Up, It's A Thing!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wings128](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wings128/gifts).



> wings128 needs massive thanks for this, not only is she a fab beta, but also, she is the instigator of this particular bunny, lol. Boxers and Boots. That's all I'm saying.

Rodney watches John stare at his hand with an expression of barely repressed aggravation, "How many times do we have to tell you...Stop that, get off, Ronon!"

Ronon doesn't immediately untangle Sheppard's hands from Mckay's collar, finding the usually smug scientist's discomfort far too entertaining. So what if John's a little out of it, so what if he looks about ready to plant a big wet smacker on Rodney's nose, that'll serve the pious bastard right for flaking out during recon.

Reaching out, prying John's surprisingly strong fingers from Mckay's jacket, Ronon grins at his CO's look of utter disappointment and pats him gently on the shoulder, "Leave the nice Doctor alone Sheppard."

Carson tries and fails to hide the smirk now curving his lips, "Sorry Rodney, shoulda warned ye not to get too close. He's a wee bit cuddly."

Mckay's disgruntled huff does nothing to damp down the rest of the room's amusement and he hunches his shoulders before stalking off towards the control room, mumbling none to quietly about stupid, idiotic colonel's who should know better than to press buttons and pull levers on machinery they've never seen before.

Ronon watches Rodney's retreating back all the way out of the infirmary before turning to Carson and raising an eyebrow, "So, how long's he gonna be like this?"

Beckett does his best to school his features as Sheppard starts trying to plait a couple of Ronon's stray dreadlocks, "Twenty-four hours I'd say. He got hit with a fair amount of the gas. Which by the way, Rodney informed me before he stomped off like a tot with no sweeties, seems to have the same molecular make up as what we'd call 'laughing gas'."

Ronon bats at John's hands absentmindedly and gives the doctor a puzzled look, "Laughing gas? As in makes you laugh?"

Beckett gives in a chuckles at Sheppard's beatific grin at his haphazard attempts to make pretty patterns out of Ronon's hair and shakes his head before answering, "Oh, yes, it's mainly used as a painkiller on Earth, for dental work but it does what it says on the tin, makes ye giggle like a pillock."

Ronon nods and reaches behind him, snagging both of John's wrists in one large hand, "Okay, so, confine him to his quarters? Or should we keep him here..."

Beckett grimaces and shakes his head even harder, "No, gods no, I don't need him trying to make new and improved concoctions out of my best anti-biotic's. Take him back to his room, sit him in front of the telly and give him something to eat. No extra sugar though, he's high as a kite as it is."

Ronon twists in front of John, hooks a strong arm round his friend's back and tugs him gently off the med-cot before shouldering his weight and trying to ignore the soft huffs of sweet smelling warm breath against his cheek as Sheppard giggles like a child on swing, "Wish me luck doc'."

Beckett watches Ronon walk John from the room and chuckles again before calling out after them, "You could always split shifts, ask Rodney to help out."

The Satedan's gruff, "NO!" is covered by John's voice, light and high, asking if Ronon can see the shiny dancing lights as well.

~^~

Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four freaking hours of John Sheppard trying to paw Ronon like he's the world's largest doll. He's in hell, he's actually in hell.

Ronon's fully aware that the spark between them is mutual and not exactly un-noticed by everyone else in the team but he'll be damned if he pins Sheppard down and fucks him to within an inch of his life when his friend probably won't remember why he's walking with a limp the next morning. It goes against everything the Specialist believes in. It'd be like taking advantage of a woman when she's drunk.

Having said that, if John doesn't stop trying to crawl into Ronon's lap, the younger man may have to throw morals out the window and lick the length of Sheppard's exposed throat, "John will you fucking behave!"

John's eyes widen and a look of utter desolation creeps across his face before his bottom lip begins to quiver.

Oh bloody hell!

Ronon reaches out and takes John's hand in both of his, rubbing soothing circles over his best friend's knuckles, "I'm sorry John, I didn't mean to shout. Just...sit still and watch the game, okay?"

John pouts and nods towards the TV, "Football's boring!"

Ronon laughs and settles back against the couch, "I'm so reminding you of that the next time you try and make me watch a recorded game."

John understands there's something wrong with him, he'd usually be sat screaming at the screen, egging his team on even though he knows the outcome already, but the memory is fuzzy around the edges and he'd much rather be playing with Ronon. The Satedan's far more fun than a bunch of guys in shorts and helmets all arguing over a ball full of air.

Oh, shorts, Ronon in shorts, Ronon out of shorts. No, stop it, you'll make him mad again.

John grins at Ronon, watches the way his teeth worry at his bottom lip, how his eyes flick in his direction every few seconds; look of worry, exasperation and affection all mingled together in his beautiful eyes.

Planting his hands flat on the couch, John starts sliding towards his friend, hoping to get a little closer without being noticed.

"John, don't make me tie you down!"

Ronon shakes his head and grimaces at the reaction his body gives to that image and tries really hard to ignore the Colonel's childlike giggle.

~^~

Only four hours to go and Ronon can feel his eyelids drooping dangerously. John's been passed out in bed for a while but he won't risk taking his eyes of his commanding officer, not when he turned his back for five minutes earlier to use the bathroom and came back to find Sheppard trying to climb out the window because, 'the ocean looked so pretty'.

John snuffles in his sleep and rolls over, exposing the thin line of hair trailing tantalisingly beneath the covers and the boxer shorts Ronon knows are there.

That was a hell of a thing as well; trying to squeeze John into a pair of shorts and actively ignore the raging erection staring him in the face was all kinds of non-fun!

How exactly did he manage to get himself into this...Oh yes, he volunteered. Idiot.

Ronon rolls his eyes at his reaction to John's cute mumbles and shakes his head, attempting to force the memory of the tiny droplet of pre-come glistening at the tip of his best friend's cock as he'd cajoled him out of his clothes out of his mind.

His own shaft gives a twitch as he licks his lips and imagines snaking his tongue along John's slit before he pinches his own arm, gripping flesh between ragged nails, trying anything to distract himself from the idea that he could so easily crawl in beside his friend, splay his hands on his well defined back and nibble the length of his spine.

Responding to the pain, his body shudders and his cock subsides enough for him to be able to shift around on his perch at the end of John's bed.

Leaning back against the wall, Ronon lets his eyes drift shut for just a moment.

~^~

John awakens to find Ronon snoring softly, arms crossed in front of him, chin resting against his chest.

Loath to wake his sleeping friend, John allows himself a moment of stillness, to watch the rise and fall of Ronon's chest, the way the light from the moons shining through the open blinds plays across the dark skin at the hollow of his throat.

He truly is a beautiful man. There was never any one on Earth that completely captivated him the way Ronon has in the last few years. His fierce loyalty and readiness to fight for what's right, even at the detriment to his own life, has cemented his place in John's heart and will guarantee their friendship no matter what else may happen between them.

Chuckling at his own floweriness, half heartedly blaming it on the toxin in his system, John slides to the edge of the bed, slips his feet into his unlaced combat boots and stands, feeling the sharp pang of hunger gnawing at his insides, "Food, I need food!"

~^~

Ronon wakes with a start, almost falling off his seat, and notes with growing panic that John's bed is empty and there's a trail of sheets leading through the open door, "Shit!"

He's up and off at a run before he even thinks about where John might have gone. Looking at the wall clock on his way by, he realises the colonel's only got another hour and the affects of the alien gas should've worn off completely. That doesn't mean he wants his best friend roaming the corridors alone.

For all he knows John's completely buck naked and spouting poetry to the walls, "Fucking shit!"

~^~

Ronon rounds the edge of the mess hall's servery hatch and skids to a halt behind John; head buried in the inhumanly huge refrigerator, body bare apart from his boxer shorts and combat boots, "Bloody hell Sheppard, you trying to give me heart failure!"

John hears Ronon's voice, muffled by chilled air and double doors, and backs out of the fridge, arms full of random, mismatched bits of food.

His skin is puckered and covered in gooseflesh as he cradles his finds in his arms, but the all consuming need for something to chew on is out weighing how freaking cold standing in front of the open fridge is making him.

Nudging the doors shut with the toe of his boot, John dreamily drifts passed Ronon, welcoming smile quirking the edge of his mouth, and dumps his prizes on the nearest table before sitting down and digging in; discarding tin foil and cling film as he devours each piece of food.

Ronon notes with growing frustration that John hasn't even laced his god damned boots and finds an up swelling of anger forcing it's way out of his heaving chest, "For fuck sake John! Are you trying to get yourself killed. You're half high and mostly naked and you couldn't even do up your bloody laces. What are you, a, a..."

John offers Ronon a small grin, lips covered in the crumbs of something Ronon doesn't recognise as any normal food group, and gestures towards the other side of the table, "Moron, is that the word you were looking for?"

"That will do," Ronon stalks towards John and slaps him upside the head before turning and throwing himself into the empty seat, "Seriously Sheppard, what the fuck!"

John laughs around a mouthful of cheesecake and spits crumbly pieces of biscuit onto the table before wiping his mouth and grinning, "I was hungry, so sue me, gas is almost gone, I can feel my fingers and toes again. There's no one else up at this time of the night anyway. What's the issue?"

Ronon steeples his fingers in front of his face and screws his eyes shut, "The issue oh fearless leader, is that you can't call someone out on not taking orders after they've found you wandering the halls in nothing but a pair of shiny material'd boxer shorts and your bloody boots. Idiot!"

"They're silk," John ignores Ronon's growing ire, knowing it's meant well enough, and offers him a chicken leg. Where in the hell did they get chicken legs from in the Pegasus Galaxy! Next time they do a supply run back home, he's going to inspect the crates.

The younger man shakes his head, dreadlocks tickling his shoulder blades, and lets out a deep, weary sigh, "You're gonna regret this tomorrow you know. The minute you're completely 'Sheppard' again, you'll be pissed about being in the mess hall practically naked."

John laughs and stuffs another bit of something into his mouth, missing the slight darkening in Ronon's eyes, or the way he tilts his head and scrutinises the older man's semi-naked body.

Okay, so combat boots and boxers isn't necessarily a bad look on his best friend but that doesn't mean he wants the rest of the base wolf whistling his commanding officer for the next six weeks every time someone remembers seeing him like this, "John, please, take the food back to your quarters but please let's get out of here. Before Mckay comes trundling round the corner and I have to shoot him for eyeing up your ass in those silk boxers."

Looking up at Ronon through long, dark lashes, John feels the heat of his friend's stare trailing across his chilled skin, "And what would it matter to you if he did start ogling my goodies, huh?"

Ronon grunts and stands, refusing to give voice to the many acrobatic ways in which he could show John exactly why it would matter, "Come on, back to your room."

John rises, grabs a couple of cold cuts of meat and trails after Ronon who's shoulders are hunched and he's muttering to himself low enough that the older man can't quite catch what he's saying, "Yes Mom."

Ronon reaches behind without looking and swipes a cold cut out of John's hand just as he's about to bite into it, "Don't push it Colonel!"

~^~

By the time Ronon's gotten John back to his quarters they've managed to avoid running into anyone who might happen to have a camera on them.

Ducking into three separate store cupboards on two different levels of the complex has meant John's bare chest sliding against Ronon's now sweat-soaked leathers and has caused several different facial expressions from the Specialist with a will stronger than iron, up to and including looking like he was going to pop a blood vessel if Sheppard didn't stop wiggling.

Ronon's beginning to suspect that his commanding officer was spreading himself out on purpose, judging by the sly grins and cheeky chuckles he's been steadily trying to ignore for the better part of their stealthy trek back to the living quarters.

Finally managing to get John inside and the door closed, Ronon turns back into the room to find his best friend stood with his hands on his hips, eyes wide, looking down at himself with an expression of horror etched onto his rugged features.

The blue tinged haze clouding John's mind clears and the fog he's been wading through for the past day dissipates, leaving him freezing cold and not knowing why, until he takes a cursory look at himself in the darkened window, "Well fuck me. Ronon, why am I...Exactly what am I doing in boxers and boots in the middle of my living room?"

Ronon breaths a sigh of relief and takes a step closer to John, "You got hit with a dose of toxic gas from one of those machines Mckay told you not to play with. Although, if he'd actually fucking been there you wouldn't have started yanking on levers until you got sprayed."

"Oh, right, yeah I remember, down in the south corridor off the East pier. Oops," becoming acutely aware that he's still wearing nothing but a pair of boots, boxers and a smile, John has to fight the urge to cover himself with his arms, instead opting for fronting it out. Leaning down, dropping into a crouch, he reaches for his laces.

Ronon can't take it any more, not when John's thighs are spread and he can see the soft, smooth fabric of his shorts pulled tight over his cock. Lunging forward, the warrior uses his superior speed to snatch his friend's wrists and hold them in place, "John..."

Ronon's on his knees in front of his commanding officer, eyes dark with desire he's barely been holding in check for the last twenty-four hours and John can see how much it's cost him to keep them an arms length from each other.

Cheeks flooding with blood, blush creeping all the way down his throat, blossoming out onto his chest, John's mind offers up fragmented flashes of memories; trying to crawl into Ronon's lap, asking him if they can play doctors and nurses, oh god, plaiting the younger man's dreadlocks in full view of Carson, "Ronon, I...I'm..."

Ronon, long fingers still circling John's wrists, curls himself into a sitting position on the floor and tugs Sheppard down with him, "Don't...don't say sorry. Just, okay, next time you get walloped with an alien piece of something, could you refrain from walking around the base in nothing but a grin and your annoyingly adorable scruffy hair."

John's embarrassment and indignant snorting is cut short by a chuckle he can't quite keep buried, "Adorable? Adorable! How do you even know what that word means?"

Ronon ducks his head and stares up at John from beneath his lashes, "Keller called Mckay it once, asked her what it meant, she said, 'Think John's fringe, the way it never seems to all go the same direction-adorable!'"

John laughs and allows Ronon's easy smile to sooth his bruised ego at coming too wearing pretty much nothing and realising he's been basically throwing himself at his best friend for the last twenty-four hours, "Seriously though, you didn't have to stay, you could've,"

Ronon squeezes John's wrists then twists their hands before interlocking their fingers, "What, I could have let some private look after you. I'd have been stunning people for weeks every time I found them giggling over a picture of you trying to climb your walls."

John makes as if to pull away, not knowing whether he can fight the urge to reach out and cup Ronon's cheek, "Right I should go and, yeah, clothes, clothes would be good."

Ronon can't quell the rising panic in his throat at the thought of being separated from John, not after watching over him for so long and not after he's had to fight the need to close the distance between them the entire time, "No, stay."

John tries to tug his hand free only to have Ronon bodily yank him into his lap, "Hey, what the..."

"You were all for sitting on me earlier big guy."

John's eyes drift closed as Ronon's breath ghosts against the back of his neck, raising goose bumps along his spine, making the hair on his arms stand on end, "Ronon..."

Ronon allows himself this moment of closeness, lets his warm cheek fall against John's shoulder and inhales deeply before spinning the older man in his lap.

John's forced to wrap a leg either side of Ronon's ribs as he's twisted on the spot, not missing the slight twitch of flesh hardening against the crease of his ass through leather and silk, "Just because I tried to play 'house' with you earlier, doesn't mean you have to..."

Ronon cards his fingers through thick, glossy hair, pinning John's head in place, not allowing him to retreat to a safe minimum distance to brush this off, "I'm not...we're not. For fuck sake John, we've been dancing round each other for years. Every time you even brush against me in the jumper I damn near break out in a hot sweat."

John's lips curve upwards ever so slightly and his eyes darken; a knowing sparkle nestled in their depths, as he rests his forehead against Ronon's, "Yeah, sorry about that. Not like the sparring sessions weren't bordering on sexually repressed torture for the last how ever long."

Ronon's cheeks flush at the reminder of John, sweat pouring down his back, lips slightly parted as he pants for breath and tries to get his feet. His cock twitches again and he's fully aware John can feel it. It's now or never!

The feel of Ronon's thick shaft swelling beneath him and the silk of his shorts caressing his own growing erection remind John that he's either going to have to put up or shut up, they can't keep on keeping on, not if he doesn't want the most severe case of blue balls this galaxy has ever seen.

Taking a steadying breath, John pulls back far enough to watch for any hesitation in his friend's eyes and grips the back of Ronon's head.

Pulling him close, John's lips slide gently against the curve of Ronon's mouth, tongue darting out, licking into the corners, savouring the flavour of all that heat, loyalty and respect.

Ronon groans low in his throat, closes his eyes and twists his fingers in John's hair, tugging him closer, inhaling every last drop of what makes the man in his lap so very important to him, "Bed, now!"

John chuckles at Ronon's gruff one syllable commands and tries to shift upwards only to be swept off his feet into strong arms, "Hey, I'm not a fairy princess."

Ronon grunts and strides through to the bedroom, dropping John on his ass before attacking the laces at his own waist, "You're still wobbly, it was faster."

John hooks his feet over the bed and reaches for his boots only to have Ronon's voice cut through the electric silence, "No, don't. Leave them."

John raises an eyebrow and smirks, "Really? Boots and boxers!"

Ronon goes back to divesting himself of unwanted layers and shrugs, "It's a thing. Shut up!"

The laughter in John's voice dies as Ronon fixes him with a stare that could peel the clothes straight off his back, were he wearing any, and swallows thickly as his mouth goes completely dry. Sliding up the bed, reaching behind without looking, Sheppard claws his way into the middle of the covers and watches as Ronon stalks across the sheets, now completely naked; cock thick and long, bobbing between his toned, tanned thighs, pre-come gathering at it's tip.

Ronon feels the fire of need wash over him; fill his lungs, force it's way up his throat until it's all he can do not to simply fall on John, rip the boxers from his body and bend him over the edge of the bed. Shaking himself, tamping down on his baser instincts, the warrior grins lasciviously at his best friend before gripping the heels of his boots and dragging him across the covers.

John's entire body is frozen in a rictus of want, by the heat he can feel rolling off of Ronon's skin, the way his eyes devour every inch of exposed flesh until he wishes he never had to wear clothes again. How often does he forget that this man is a fighter, a taker, a warrior with the strength to decimate and destroy. Fixed in his sights, Sheppard's not sure if he's afraid or so turned on he could light a candle by blowing on it.

Ronon's brain is pretty much at 'tree pretty, fire bad' as he yanks John towards him, hooking a foot onto the end of the bed he uses the older man's weight to his advantage and flips him onto his knees. Hand splayed against Sheppard's tense stomach muscles, the taller man urges him to raise his ass.

John lets his head fall forward and groans out Ronon's name before gesturing wildly at the bedside table.

Ronon understands and quickly circles the bed, retrieving a tube of sticky liquid before settling himself back behind John who is practically vibrating on the spot, "Spread your legs."

The strength in Ronon's voice has John's cock leaking like a tap, the front of his silk shorts now completely drenched with pre-come and slickly sliding against his prickly, over heated skin, "Ronon, please...I need..."

Ronon hooks two fingers in the waistband of John's shorts and slips them just far enough down to expose his tight, puckered hole; muscles twitching, begging to be laved with his tongue. Resting on his knees, Ronon grips both of Sheppard's cheeks and parts them before leaning close enough for his breath to tickle his partner's overheated skin, "What do you want. Tell me!"

John isn't sure how much more he can take, every single word out of Ronon's mouth is like molten lava pouring over his body, dousing him in a warmth he's never felt before, "You, I want you."

Ronon presses forward, burying his nose between John's cheeks and grins, knowing that the other man will be able to feel the curve of his lips.

John arches his back, grinds his ass into Ronon's mouth and gives up all pretence of strength in the face of being taken by this amazing man, "Now, please, tongue, fingers, anything, everything."

Ronon's tongue snakes out of his mouth, saliva mingles with sweat to create a kind of suction, slicking John's tight hole. Reaching up, slipping his thumb in alongside his tongue, he uses the pad to widen the muscles now grasping at him.

John's forehead hits the bed and his leg's shudder, thigh muscles holding him up despite the feeling of complete weightlessness.

Ronon uncaps the tube at his knees without looking, spilling a puddle of lube on the covers, not caring because right now all he wants is for John's body to swallow him whole.

Pulling his face away, beard covered in saliva and a taste that is completely 'John', Ronon coats two fingers before forcing the tips of both inside his lover's ass, placing his other hand at Sheppard's hip, steadying him as he twists and massages his way inside the body he's been fantasising about for so long.

As Ronon scissors his fingers, he catches a nail on John's quivering flesh, nearly causing the older man to blow his load right there. The bitter sting of pain coupled with sure, fast strokes have him trembling and twitching in the younger man's hand, "Fuck sake! You trying to make me come or you just playing?"

Ronon takes pity on John, despite the fact he could happily watch that sweet, tight hole engulf his fingers for hours, he thinks perhaps he better not make it so his commanding officer isn't actually fit for duty after already being out for the last twenty-four hours. Try explaining that to Carson and Woolsey.

John feels bereft as Ronon pulls away only to groan deeply when the tip of the other man's cock slides between his cheeks.

Hooking an arm over John's shoulder, hand splayed against his chest, Ronon hauls him to his knees as he begins to shallow fuck his way inside, eyes almost crossing from the fire surrounding his now pulsing, weeping cock. He's suddenly torn between feeling Sheppard in his arms and wanting to watch his shaft disappearing inside the lithe body that's thrumming against him.

John's whispered, "Fuck me," is all the answer Ronon needs.

Falling forward, John's fingers form claws against the sheets as Ronon's nails bite in to the soft flesh of his hips. Knees roughly dragging across the bed, Sheppard cries out as his best friend slams into him over and over again, the sound of sweaty flesh slapping together only serves to push him further and further towards the edge.

Ronon's so close he can taste it, feel it building at the back of his skull; sweet torturous pressure, but he won't allow himself to come until John's a rung out mess below him.

As Ronon reaches between John's legs, he swats his friend's hand away, "No, mine!"

John's verbal skills aren't exactly up to scratch and he's not about to argue with the man who's managing to brush up against that sweet spot inside him, that makes his toes curl, on every forward thrust. He simply groans and squirms on the spot.

Ronon wraps John's cock in his fist and squeezes before taking up tempo with his hips, pulling downwards, so Sheppard's pre-come slicked tip grinds against the covers every time he slides home.

The friction is bliss, agony and bliss and John doesn't know whether to cry or scream loud enough for the whole base to hear. He opts for letting go and allowing the man behind him to own him completely.

It's been a long time coming and for once he'd like to be the one held up, the one given over to being taken.

As Ronon's thumbnail brushes against the ridge of John's cock, he feels as though he could float away, if he weren't tethered by the strong hands holding him, the thick shaft pistoning inside him, someone could cut his ties and he'd end up on the ceiling, "Fuck, Ronon, I'm gonna...Oh god I'm coming, that's it, fuck me, harder, Nrghhrghh!"

John's body contracts around Ronon and he gives in to the pulsing heat rolling in waves along his skin, from his toes to the top of his head, he pours everything he is into the orgasm that John's twitching muscles are milking from him. His hips continue to buck as he rides out the last vestiges of his release and feels his own come dribbling back down the side of his shaft.

John's mind goes blank, his body convulses and he's fairly sure he blacks out, just for a moment, as he feels Ronon's cock pulsing inside him, filling him to the point where he imagines he can taste the other man's release on his lips, in every breath he draws, "Fucking hell!"

They collapse, sweaty and spent, into a tangle of limbs.

Ronon rolls onto his side, still buried inside John, and drags the other man's back against his chest before dropping a gentle kiss at his temple, "You do realise you'll have to be careful where you wear those boots from now on don't you..."

John's laughter is both too quiet and too loud in a room so full of feeling and neither one of them wants to shatter the peace.

John's sure of one thing though, next time Mckay tells him not to play with the machinery, he's ignoring him outright!


End file.
